


that shepherds crush underfoot

by Blue_Skidoo



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 12:31:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12557432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Skidoo/pseuds/Blue_Skidoo
Summary: Still, the repercussions of Garrus's presence on the team had to be accounted for by someone, and Miranda was nothing if not meticulous. Shepard’s alliance with Cerberus was tenuous at best, but surrounded by Cerberus crew - and Miranda’s own careful guidance - the situation could be managed, control chip or no.-In which Miranda spends a lot of mental energy thinking about Commander Shepard, Garrus is only mildly antagonistic, and Jacob does everything in his power to remain unhelpful.





	that shepherds crush underfoot

**24.**

_Like a hyacinth_

_in the mountains_

_that shepherds crush underfoot._

 

_Even on the ground_

_a purple flower._

 - Sappho Fragment

* * *

 

Shepard, Miranda had observed more than once during her work in the Lazarus cell, was built like a warhorse - all broad shoulders and thick, corded muscle. Her body had been hardened by a rough childhood on earth, refined by her N7 training, and fired in the crucible against Saren and the Geth. Even on the operating table, hooked up to all manner of machinery and dead to the world Shepard had managed to look like a thug.

But Shepard, for all her brutish might and strong-jawed, bullheaded heroism, stormed through the battlefield with the grace and precision of a pike through water. She struck hard and fast, and those she left in her wake scrambled like they were fleeing death itself. She strode through the halls of the Normandy SR-2 like she was born to command the helm, holding the loyalty of the common crewmen in the palms of her hands while wearing her scorn for Cerberus openly.

It was fascinating, from a scientific point of view. Miranda considered herself an expert on all things Commander Shepard, as much as anyone could be after an undertaking like Project Lazarus. Naturally she had been curious to see if the woman could live up to the myth. Two years out of commision (to put it delicately) and Shepard was already mowing down Geth and jumped-up mercenaries like she hadn’t been a mess of meat and bone barely a year ago.

Even with her hesitations Miranda had to admit things were going well. That is, they were going well right up until one Garrus Vakarian was rushed into the medbay, carapace split open, dark blue blood all the way up Shepard’s arms. She should have noticed it then, the way Shepard’s jaw clenched, the tension changing her eyes into something feral, fearful.

Poor supervision, on her part.

 

* * *

 

The first time Miranda noticed a change with the Commander, she had been dining in the mess hall. Despite what some might think of her, Miranda was not above mingling with the Normandy’s crew. If anything, it was a necessary part of her position, alleviating whatever fears they might have and affirming further loyalty to the mission and to Cerberus. Even if it did mean braving Mess Sergeant Gardner’s food.

She was halfway through working through one of the man’s tougher concoctions when Shepard emerged from the Main Battery room, Garrus in tow.

“Commander,” Miranda sat up straighter and inclined her head towards Garrus, both an admission and a question.

“Operative Lawson - Man’s gotta eat. Can’t be working on calibrations all day,” Shepard said, as though that explained anything. Garrus mumbled something in response, clearly dragged out against his will.

It was the first time Miranda had seen him since he had been brought aboard the Normandy. She knew enough about turian body language to tell he was uncomfortable, but when Shepard took his arm he relaxed and sat down.  

“Just dextro packets for now, handsome. Maybe we can get Gardner some provisions so you can suffer with the rest of us.” Shepard even _winked_ at him.

“Don’t make it sound too pleasant, I don’t want to grow soft on this luxury cruiser of yours,” Garrus grumbled. Shepard snorted in response and left in search of food for the two of them.

“So… Operative Lawson, was it?” Garrus turned to Miranda; having the strange rumbling of his voice directed at her caught her off guard. “It must be difficult for a Cerberus operation to have a Turian onboard. Hope I won’t be too much of a bother.”

“Cerberus’s interest is in the advancement of the human race,” Miranda responded automatically, a script she’d quickly been getting used to following with Shepard on board, “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Hmm,” the turian’s mandibles shifted as he hummed, a subharmonic, grating sound. “I think the Flotilla would disagree but,” Garrus stared down at her with dark-rimmed eyes, “Guess you’d be the expert, there.”

"Alright, Garrus. Play nice,” Shepherd returned with two food trays, one with a standard, military-issued dextro pack and the other with hardly more appetizing food. She pressed in close to the turian, elbows propped casually against the table while she whispered something inaudible to him, a half-smile flirting around the corners of her mouth. Garrus leaned back in his seat and chuckled. He immediately winced at the action, bringing a talon up to pry at the bandages still covering half his face. The Commander’s smile spread further, bringing a fondness to her face Miranda hadn’t seen before. It was so… distinctly _un-Shepard_ she thought she might have imagined it.

“Careful there, tiger,” Shepard said. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Hmph. I don’t normally take advice from corpses,” the turian shifted, nudging the Commander with his shoulder. “But since it’s you, Shepard, I’ll make an exception.”

Shepard tipped back her head laughed at that, the sound light and pleasant. Miranda’s eyes widened imperceptibly - she had heard Shepard laugh before - mostly short bitter huffs of frustration or raucous cheers in the middle of combat. It occurred to Miranda she had never seen the Commander so at ease.

Miranda caught Shepard’s gaze across the table. Her heart skipped a beat at being caught staring, her hands curled tighter around her utensils. Shepherd’s half-lidded, almost taunting look was simply too much, and Miranda stood and excused herself, making her way back to her quarters.

 

* * *

 

“....Vakarian.” She swiped her hand across her desk, bringing up her keyboard. For a moment she considered sending a rather strongly-worded mission brief to the Illusive Man before deciding better of it. Instead she grabbed the smooth edge of the desk and pushed herself back to stare at the ceiling until the bright overhead light caused spots to form in her vision.

Truthfully, if Miranda had known the Archangel was Shepard’s old squadmate beforehand, she might have voiced her concerns with the Illusive Man. Now that the turian was aboard the Normandy there was little point in saying anything. The report was typed up, reviewed, and sent, with no mention either way on her opinion of the matter.

Still, the repercussions of his presence on the team had to be accounted for by _someone_ , and Miranda was nothing if not meticulous. Shepard’s alliance with Cerberus was tenuous at best, but surrounded by Cerberus crew - and Miranda’s own careful guidance - the situation could be managed, control chip or no.

 

* * *

 

The second time Miranda noticed just how much Shepard was changing, they were on some godforsaken junkyard of a planet, the air thick with smoke and dust. Shepard had just put two rounds into a Blue Suns mercenary and was ducking for cover to reload. Miranda couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Garrus, but the steady, unmistakable _crack_ of a rifle shot followed by mercenaries dropping probably meant he was handling himself just fine.

Miranda’s biotics were strained - her abilities may have been more potent than most but still, human biotics wore heavily on their users. The sharp tang of eezo hung around her and, breath labored but controlled, she flung another warp into the field, tearing at enemy barriers.

“Can’t get a bead on their sniper,” Garrus grit through their communicators, his statement punctuated by a shot impacting dangerously close to where Miranda had just been.

"Hey Garrus, remember Xawin?” Shepard barely waited for affirmation before jolting out of cover to rush towards the enemy line. An irresistible target for a sniper, especially one no longer thinking of hiding their position.

Shepard fell back, kinetic shields breaking under the full force of the impact. Not a split second later, barely long enough for an unchecked cry of alarm to escape past Miranda’s lips, and the enemy sniper’s head burst. Miranda looked back to see Garrus already reloading his rifle to pick off the remaining mercenaries.

“Next time,” Shepard wheezed from where she fell to the ground, “I get to take the shot, and _you_ can be the tantalizing distraction, you turian bastard.”

“With your aim?” Garrus’s voice cracked over the comms, and Miranda let out a long breath. “Unlikely.”

Shepard propped herself up into a sitting position and removed her helmet, red hair wild and plastered to the sweat on her brow. Miranda set about applying a medkit, the thick correctional adhering to Shepard's injured side instantly. The Commander rolled her shoulders and rested her head against the hunk of metal she had taken cover behind.

“Thanks, Miranda,” Shepard sighed, and Miranda nearly dropped the medkit in shock.

“Commander?” Miranda asked cautiously. Shepard blinked at her, confusion open on her face. She had never referred to Miranda by name before, and had certainly never thanked her for anything - resurrection included - but apparently hadn’t recognized how earth-shaking her gratitude had been. She didn’t seem to be concussed, and had taken worse hits in battle with far more unpleasantness.

Something, Miranda was realizing, was very wrong with Commander Shepard.

“It’s nothing, Commander. Glad you’re alright.”

 

* * *

 

“Miranda,” Jacob pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced. “You’re not seriously asking me for my opinion on the commander’s love life.”

“Hardly,” Miranda said. She ran a hand through her hair. “I’m just… concerned.”

Jacob crossed his arms and shot her a look that conveyed _exactly_ how much he believed her.

“You have to admit, Shepard’s… partnership with Vakarian is concerning,” Miranda pushed on. “It would be more advantageous to the mission if she could involve herself with Cerberus personnel, if she has to at all.”

“Is that what this is about? You’re worried Shepard is going to go rogue?” Jacob snorted. “Commandeer the ship with Vakarian and take up a life of piracy?” He tapped his chin. “I wonder if they’d consider taking applications. I would look damn good with a nose ring.”

“This isn’t funny, Jacob,” Miranda said. “The last thing we need is Shepard… colluding with anti-Cerberus sentiment.”

“Colluding.”

“ _Yes_ , Jacob.”

“I think you should talk to her about it,” Jacob said, apparently set on ignoring her line of thinking. “If you’re that concerned.”

"And besides,” Jacob shot her a sideways glance and rubbed the back of his neck. “I really don’t think I’m her type.”

 

* * *

 

“Garrus and I?” Shepard smiled up at Miranda and placed her model down on the desk. She seemed to smile more, certainly more than when she was first pressed into Cerberus colors. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Operative Lawson.”

“I’m not in the mood for games, Commander,” Miranda said. “If there’s something going on between you and Vakarian, I suggest you exercise some of your famous Shepard discretion. The mission comes first.”

Shepard swiveled around in her chair, back to fiddling with her model. Her rough hands moved with quick precision, twisting delicate metal pieces into place. “Garrus and I aren’t involved in anything more than the galaxy’s most passionate, platonic relationship.”

“Charming.”

“Do you ever think about what comes after the mission, Miranda?” Apparently satisfied with her modifications, she gently placed the model ship back on the rack.

“Assuming we don’t die?” Miranda scoffed.

“We won’t die,” Shepard’s response was so low Miranda almost didn’t catch it, but the edge in the Commander’s voice sent a spark straight down her spine. Shepard stood up and turned to face Miranda. The blue glow of the aquarium washed over them, turning the Commander’s expression into something distant and unreadable.

“We are not going to die,” Shepard repeated. Her tone brokered no argument and, despite everything, Miranda could almost believe her.

Except for what they were attempting was the very definition of a suicide mission. Everyone on board knew this, had made peace with it. Everyone but Shepard, whose own unwavering conviction ran a very real risk of becoming infectious.  

“I don’t think I understand you, Shepard,” Miranda finally confessed.

Shepard held her gaze for a long moment before turning away, the muscles of her neck stretched in a tight line. This close, Miranda could see the faint glow of Shepard’s scars, still not fully healed.

“I’ve never….” Shepard started, took a deep breath, then continued, “I’ve never had a normal life, whatever that is,” she reached out to touch her fingers to the aquarium glass, following the nervous path of an Illium Skald. “Dunno if I ever wanted one, really. Wouldn’t be me if I did.”

“Not sure I can speak on the merits of a normal life, Commander,” Miranda said. Certainly nothing about her situation could count as normal, and even beyond that, it wasn’t as though any of them had a good barometer for what normal should be. The corner of Shepard's mouth turned in a wry sort of smile, more accurately a grimace.

“In the Alliance, there was this sense of duty. Cerberus isn’t too different in that sense,” Shepard removed her hand from the aquarium, but still regarded the Skald somberly. It had swam down to the bottom of the tank to flit through some imitation kelp. “A lot of talk about we can do to make things better for those who come after us, for those who can’t or won’t or aren’t able to fight. But you and I know better, don’t we, Operative Lawson. This is what we’re _good_ at. This is what we were meant to do.”

For a moment, the veins of Shepard's surgical scars spread, curling along her jaw to her eyes. Then the Commander turned and the moment was gone, the red glow diminished.

“What comes after the mission, Miranda?” Shepard seemed smaller then, just a woman. A woman in command of perhaps the most technologically advanced starship in the galaxy, of a crew that would gladly die under her command; who had been brought back from the dead for this mission - but still, a woman.

“Sometimes people like us aren’t given a choice,” Shepherd reached up and hit a button on the panel beside the aquarium, dispensing food into the tank. “Sometimes… we have to save ourselves because no one else will do it for us.”

“That’s a lonely way to live, Shepard,” Miranda replied, reaching out to place first her fingers, gingerly, then her palm on Shepard's arm. “I would imagine that’s what one should say, anyway. I’m your surgeon, not your therapist.” That, at least, got a laugh out of Shepard, breathless and light.

“We can be lonely together, then,” Shepard winked at her, and Miranda barely even thought about admonishing her for it.

 


End file.
